


Dans l'Obscurité de Ses Yeux (In the Darkness Of His Eyes)

by The_Thieving_Magpie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8841919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Thieving_Magpie/pseuds/The_Thieving_Magpie
Summary: Moriarty and Sherlock are in a Grand Hotel in Paris. Sherlock has just learned that Jim has perhaps three weeks to live. Cancer is claiming the Spider, drawing him down into the void .. and there was something else.Something to break both their hearts.





	

“I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake. Just move aside, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stands like some great unknowable statue, carved in granite or perhaps marble, yes, marble, but black marble, no pale medium can ever display what he is, who he is. Though the man himself is fair and moonlit, skin like alabaster.

Jim watches him, love and hatred burning his veins, making his heart seize in aching sadness. Everything that could have been, and never will be, because of his madness, his cruelty, his violence and his child’s game. No one else can make him feel, no one else can make him real, and it shouts to the heedless heavens, their tragedy.

“You’re blocking the door, dummy." 

Jim tries to bring it down, dumb it down, infuse snark and humor where there is nothing of happiness. "Let me out of here. Unless you intend to call your little friends and have me arrested. I wish them luck, there isn’t much of me left to imprison or even to stick needles into. Or even wrap a straight jacket onto. But you can try. You can always try." 

Sherlock waits, watching him as if he’s some particularly odd show on the television. His clear eyes with the overshadowing of the dreadful intelligence are stars delivered to the mortal level, penetrating and cruel, merciless. Jim tries to move him, literally move him, and it’s like trying to get some movement out of a parked London bus. There is sway, there is give, there is no move.

"You’re so thin now. You didn’t have much on you to spare.”

It isn’t meant in any way cruel, and Sherlock is too trapped in this moment to realize that it does hurt, is hurtful, is harsh. Because all he knows is what he meant, and it was all pity. Pity is a new thing for Sherlock, he isn’t handling it well. Isn’t handling it at all.

“Well, thanks. That makes me feel better.” But it’s true, he’s lost so much weight. He is gaunt, weak. A man on death’s very door now. Jim wishes he could feel, even fear. Perhaps he feels sadness. There’s something in there, in the scathing emptiness of his soul. Perhaps he’s so afraid he can’t even understand it as such.

Perhaps he is merely lonely.

So fucking lonely.

“Please.”

He begs, and it doesn’t become him at all. “Please, Sherlock. Don’t … do this to me. Let me go, die alone and in whatever passes for peace in the hell of my life.”

“You made it hell, Jim, for yourself and me too. I never wanted that. I still don’t. And you aren’t going anywhere. Not tonight.”

Defeated, and too weak to battle on, Moriarty walks to the bed and sits down. Takes the gun out of his pocket, and lays it on the nightstand. “That was for us. First you … then me.”

“I know.”

“You …knew.” He laughs, tiredly. “Of course you did. You always do.”

Sherlock finally walks away from the door, but as he does so he slides the very heavy dresser in front of it, a deterrent.

Jim watches him, wonders what the torture will be, what form it might take. For the first time in a while, he feels some level of interest in something. But Sherlock merely lays down, watching him. The moon streams its light within the high hotel room, and Jim shakes his head, laying back as well, next to him. Both men silent for a very long time, perhaps an hour. The stillness overtakes the room, and the moon begins to go down.

Jim feels his breathing labor, and he struggles a little, paling.

“….!”

“You alright?”

“Just peachy!”

Another hour.

Fully clothed, in the darkness, and then Sherlock is undressing next to him. Silent as sin, twice as deadly. Jim feels his fading heart flutter, and he realizes in some terror he is about to cry. But he doesn’t. Just …barely doesn’t.

“I … ”

“I know.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?!”

“I wish there were.”

“And I’ve never - ”

“I know that, too, James.”

“It’s…………………….. always been you.”

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

With shaking hands, Jim tries to undress as well, but Sherlock is there, helping him suddenly, a pale ghost with dark hair framing his magnificent features.

“Damn you for making it so late, Jim .. making it so damned, late, too late … giving no time… ”

“I’m sorry.”

He is, too, so very sorry.

Sherlock kisses him tenderly, so gently, so delicately, on the lips, softness, kindness.

“I can’t … I’m too sick…. and I don’t want a pity fuck from the only person I ever –”

  


Sherlock slaps him. Not hard, no, not hard.

“Never… say that to me again. ”

Jim stares into his eyes, and Sherlock drowns into his as well. Abyss of darkness, sadness, need.

 

And the Parisian midnight catches them, the last of the moonbeams kisses the balcony outside, as something that was never to be and almost was not, is.

 

The End ?


End file.
